


fragments

by picklebridge



Series: Commander Cody Week 2021 [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Clone Trooper Inhibitor Chips (Star Wars), Gen, Implied Amnesia, Jedi Purge (Star Wars), Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), Purge Trooper CC-2224 | Cody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 12:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picklebridge/pseuds/picklebridge
Summary: All that trouble for this - a small body on a cold floor, and another name to cross off a dwindling list. There will be no more to kill, soon, and then he will be reassigned to something else, until he falls for the Empire or his age overtakes him.-CC-2224 is good at hunting Jedi, but he cannot figure out why it hurts.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi (implied)
Series: Commander Cody Week 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213964
Kudos: 19





	fragments

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 4 of commander cody week over on tumblr, today's prompt is 'post order 66', with a flavour of purge trooper cody and a sprinkling of regrets. if you really want to make yourself sad while reading this, i was absolutely picturing ganodi from the season 5 younglings arc being the victim here.......bc i am very haunted by thinking of that group experiencing order 66, and i must inflict it upon everyone else.

The Jedi pleads with him as they die. 

He doesn’t know why he stays to watch, why he _always_ watches, his breathing steadying even as their sputters out. He should be confirming the kill, finishing off the job, searching them for intel he knows they don’t have. And yet, still, he watches. 

Perhaps some part of him wonders if this one will be different...if this one will really look like a traitor, instead of just scared. It’s rare he gets a real fight, these days, the big names and their bounties long since cleared away. It’s only proper, that they should clear away the scraps, is only thorough. Orders are orders, but the pitiful truth of this one makes something bitter settle on his tongue. 

This target’s a Rodian, the galaxy in her eyes going dark as he pries her hands away from the vibroblade in her chest. It’s instinct to stop her spilling blood everywhere, ostensibly to make cleaning his armour quicker later, but also because it’s...easier, somehow. When they’re messy, his throat always gets a little tight, his chest a little sore. His medical checks always come back clean, save for the joints that he cannot stop getting old, so he’s learnt to just work around the problem, even if he can never figure out _why._

The duracrete is harsh against his knees, but it’s nearly over now. Her species cannot cry, but the Jedi’s snout quivers feebly at the shouts and blasterfire echoing from above. The rest of his squad will be done soon, and then there will just be loose ends to tie and the extraction to execute, routine at this point, practised. All that trouble for this - a small body on a cold floor, and another name to cross off a dwindling list. There will be no more to kill, soon, and then he will be reassigned to something else, until he falls for the Empire or his age overtakes him. 

A soldier does not worry about their mission, but it does feel alien, and unpleasant, to picture a mission where his orders don’t involve a Jedi at their core. 

“Please…” the one beside him gasps, the sound thick and wet. Different now from the desperation of before, when she’d begged him to stop, for a reason why. “Please, let me…” 

Her eyes slide away from his helmet, her trembling hands reaching across the floor. He turns his head, knowing instinctively what she wants. 

“Please…”

His hands feel leaden as he lifts the cylinder of metal by his knee, his fingers settling instinctively on the groove over the ignition switch. The sensation itches at the back of his mind, the weight of it so familiar, as though he has done this countless times before. His breath rasps through the vocoder, seizing in his lungs as a thought in a warm voice surfaces in his mind - it feels like a memory, though he doesn’t know where from. They come more and more often these days, a malfunction he cannot seem to stop.

_This weapon is your life._

He slides the hilt into the Jedi’s grasp, fitting her hands against the hilt and folding it against her chest. It’s wildly against regulation, against every battle instinct he has, but it settles something deeper within him when her trembling fingers strengthen, and her snout quivers. She doesn’t say anything else before the end, but when her chest stills, she’s smiling, her eyes no longer searching, gazing eternally at something he cannot see.

Protocol dictates he should remove the weapon, to harvest the parts and repurpose the kyber at its core. Lightsabers can breed rebellion even without a master there to wield them, he knows this, has seen it play out in many systems and on various worlds. But...instead, he finds himself being gentle, easing his blade free and rearranging the Jedi's spreadeadgled limbs, his hands slipping when he realises he’s reaching to straighten phantom robes. 

There is no reason for it, apart from the little voice inside him that whispers that this is _right._

He pushes to his feet and turns away from the body on the floor, not understanding why his face is wet, or why his chest hurts worse than ever.


End file.
